


By (no) Means

by xorabbit



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: All Right in the End, Angst, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort (emotional), Learning to Listen, M/M, Unhappy Recollections, content warning, emotional catharsis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-14 07:00:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28666626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xorabbit/pseuds/xorabbit
Summary: Neither Julian nor Garak are easy communicators on challenging topics, including when they disagree in fundamental ways about what can and cannot be included in their relationship.
Relationships: Julian Bashir/Elim Garak
Comments: 6
Kudos: 52





	By (no) Means

**Author's Note:**

> Overarching "if you do not like emotional big bummers and all-purpose unpleasant concepts, probably don't read further" content warning. 
> 
> However, it's a hurt/comfort fic, so there's the comfort. They're doing their best.

They were seated facing opposite, which was unusual. _Usually_ , when they were together in Julian’s quarters, which very nearly might be considered _their_ quarters, they sat adjacent, or at least on the same item of furniture.

Which meant—though there was a relative calm, Garak sewing, Julian reading on his padd—it was one of those evenings. One of _those_ times. One of those moments where what often came easily, did not.

Julian would occasionally snort and huff at something on his screen (perhaps a mild disagreement with the author, who certainly couldn’t hear him). He’d pull up a leg, adjust it into an entirely new configuration, and resume his studies.

Garak, meanwhile, hand-held stitching device in hand, quietly executed a few darts and seams. The fabric was simple; the design was plain. There were bread-and-butter commissions between the wedding suits and ascension gowns.

At last, he brought up one cool, gray hand, and began to bend it at the wrist, evaluating it evenly. He set his work aside, stood up, and walked over to Julian, holding out the limb like a limp fish. “My doctor, dear, my wrist seems to be in poor form. Might be strained—a repetitive injury, perhaps. If it isn’t too much trouble, I don’t suppose you might be able to offer your prodigious expertise?”

Julian looked up in mild annoyance. It was an annoyance that had been simmering. “You don’t have to make excuses, Garak.” Perhaps that was a moment for _Elim_ , but, alternatively, he wasn’t quite in the mood. “I told you, it’s fine. You don’t have to try every dashed thing I suggest. … Even if you _had_ told me, not eighteen hours earlier, that you knew I’d gotten bumped from Quark’s schedule and might quite like to bring over a few things from a holodeck program I’ve now been unable to book for—what would it be now, a month? Just, as it happens, not handcuffs. Not _entirely_ sure how I will bring over the elaborate cliff-diving setpiece, if that’s what you’d actually meant.”

“It just started up today, and given the embroidery I have intended for tomorrow, it pays to be proactive.”

( _So that’s how we’re doing it,_ Julian thought.)

The doctor leaned over the arm of the couch to his medical bag, which happened to still be beside him. His medical tricorder was never far from reach; that was his commitment as a doctor. He activated it, brusquely scanned the joint, and flicked it closed once more. “Nothing seems to be the matter, medically speaking. I’d just rest it tonight.”

Garak tilted his head, his clear eyes still focused on Julian. Sometimes they perceived him; sometimes they looked beyond him. “Ah, good news. That said, I’m concerned I may have exacerbated an older injury. Would it present too much of an annoyance for you to take a deeper look? I thought it had healed entirely, but it never hurts to be… thorough.”

That deserved Julian’s attention. Garak would, from time to time, feign an injury for attention. (And it was best to give it to him, lest he cause a genuine injury to guarantee arrival to the same ends.) That said, nothing was ever done arbitrarily, even his theatrics. Garak would always cast it in a fatuous light—Julian wasn’t sure Garak could express himself easily any other way, the performativeness, the lies—but Julian had come to know better. Better than to be dismissive. He re-opened the tricorder and reached for Garak’s wrist.

( _Oh_ , and it was nice to feel the warmth of Human hands.)

“That’s—that’s. Hm. That’s curious,” Julian admitted.

“Oh, dear. I hope nothing’s too much the matter. That’s a very concerned expression you’re wearing.”

Julian knew what readings like that meant. He saw them fairly often, but medical technology had come to the point where they often had to be sought deliberately. “This hand, has it been reattached?”

Garak’s nose wrinkled. “Even a simple life has its hazards.”

Julian’s brow furrowed. His fingers remained in place.

(Garak would run, if you ever let him.)

“Had to sever it, I’m afraid. Clothes press accident on Orion. Dreadful things.” The lie arrived listlessly, perfunctorily. He had to lie, whether he wanted to or…. Well, wanting hardly factored in. He lied as had been made his nature, and circumventing it could, at times, be beyond him.

The work was very nearly perfect, Julian thought. But that was hardly the point. “Elim….”

“The new hand was very much the same—we Cardassians have excellent doctors of our own.”

“Elim, please sit down.” Julian looked down to the empty space next to him. He swept invisible motes of dust from the sofa, as if preparing for company. The annoyance had melted; there was no place for that.

And Garak accepted that and sat. They were at such a place for him, in the room, in the quarters, in the presence of one warm and dear Julian Bashir. “We Cardassians have remarkably keen memories,” he said. That was a fact, true, but it was a _matter_ of fact. There was no point in expending (perhaps _debasing_ ) a lie under such circumstances.

(—A further scan, while Garak would allow it. An eye, a nose….)

Julian set the tricorder down as well.

“Of course, this—I was terribly concussed, took a strike to the head from some of the piping overhead. That—that I do concede to your Federation: a commitment to worker safety. Surely, my own people could integrate it and, dare I say, optimize the practice. Even we experienced workers run afoul of the quirks of our profession.”

Julian gently tipped him until his head was in Julian’s lap and his legs, as counterbalance, had found their way up onto the seat. He wove his fingers in Garak’s, and his other hand began to stroke jet-black hair: smoothing it, perfecting it. Placing into alignment that which had been interrupted by such disturbances. “I’m sorry, Elim.”

“Julian, dear, that’s all quite unnecessary and indeed, I think, overblown.”

“For thinking you objected on account of your… past employment. I mean, from the other side. I thought you thought it was just, I don’t know… tacky, again. Or, overly glib or… something. Or rude, I suppose, to associate it with sex.”

“Unfortunately, doctor, I also associate it with sex.”

Julian wasn’t sure what it said about him that his movements didn’t skip a beat. Still, his fingers ran through Garak’s hair, and still, his fingers were linked without flinching. His lips, perhaps, were briefly paralyzed, though that could hardly be helped. “I know it’s early, Elim,” he suggested. “But I’m knackered. Ready to turn in. Would you join me in coming to bed?”

Garak lovingly patted their grip with his free hand. A short purr emanated from his chest. “Of course, dear, however you like.”

“Oh, a few extra comforters should do. No funny business, I promise. Just some rest, for both of us. Would do us some good, is all.”

Garak’s expression was inscrutable. Maybe it was pity. “You’re warm, my dear.”


End file.
